


this one is for her

by weatheredlaw



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Reality, Constructed Reality, F/M, POV Second Person, Parent/Child Incest, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is your story, Elizabeth, and you get to do whatever you want with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this one is for her

In this world, you tell everyone to call you Marguerite. You and Booker are American ex-pats with French-born family. You were only married a year ago and you’re very happy together. You pick up a terrible smoking habit, but Booker doesn’t seem to be inclined to stop you. He’s picked up a terrible habit of killing people for money.

You don’t seem to be inclined to stop him. 

In this world, you are both painfully aware of all the things you have done to one another. of what you are to one another. Booker doesn’t mention it, and if he isn’t talking about it, then neither are you.

 

 

 

He whistles when cleans blood out of his clothes, and it’s a beautiful song. You didn’t know he could sing, could even carry a tune. The two of you, together, are an awful mess, but in this little bit of space, you work and fit and everything has an ease to it. 

Booker hangs the shirt up in front of the window to dry as you’re setting out plates. You’re learning to cook, with careful instruction from Booker. He teaches you to peel apples and potatoes in one long curl, to debone fish in one swift pull. Today, you’re learning to caramelize onions, and the smell fills the house and sends him into the kitchen every few minutes to look into the cast iron skillet. 

“Out,” you say, but he has a hand on your wrist and kisses you, wrestling the wooden spoon from your grip. “Mr. DeWitt--”

“Miss Elizabeth.”

Today, the onions are ruined and you have a terrible hickey on your collar bone.

But you’re happy. Both of you. 

 

 

 

Booker begs someone to spare you both in his sleep. Sometimes he offers himself up. You want to tell him there isn’t a life worth living in without him, and you would wander through tear after tear to fix it if he ever left you. If he was ever taken from you. 

“Please don’t beg for death,” you ask, and he turns over and presses you flat to the mattress, tips his forehead to yours and promises he isn’t leaving. That no one is taking them ever again. 

You are desperate enough that you believe him. 

 

 

 

You don’t know what to expect from a lover. It’s true, before Booker, you were limited to your books, to novels and songs. But you are still surprised at the way you’re almost hungry for some kind of satisfaction, and how much he seems to enjoy you. 

It surprises you how much you want to do the same for him. 

And you know the truth, too. You both do. You both know what it means when he kisses you, when you have him inside of you, when he breaths over the skin of your breasts and draws his teeth over your hip. When he threads his fingers through yours and tells you the kinder, gentler stories of his own history. Stories that you remember as mutated versions of Comstock’s propaganda, sometimes, retold with vigor and honesty. 

Sometimes, he tells you about the life you used to have. The life he wanted for you.

You always ask him to stop. 

_Please, Booker. Please don’t._


End file.
